The Pyramid Scheme of Us

The lightning struck somewhere close, shaking the windows of Marcus's corner office on the 42nd floor. He watched the flash illuminate the corporate org chart on his wall—a perfect pyramid of names, his at the apex, lonely and singular.

"You should take a vitamin D supplement," Elena had told him that morning, pressing a small amber bottle into his palm during the coffee break. "Seattle winters will hollow you out."

She was the new analyst, twenty-four, with eyes that reminded him uncomfortably of the dog he'd had to surrender during his divorce. That sameLook at me, I'm still here to be loved expression that made his chest tighten.

Now the cable was out. No distraction. Just the storm and the amber bottle on his desk and the realization that he'd spent fifteen years climbing a pyramid built entirely of other people's time.

His phone buzzed. Elena: You still there? The storm's crazy.

Marcus typed: I'm here. Then deleted it.

He thought about vitamins—these little promises we make ourselves that if we just consume the right things, take the right supplements, follow the right diagrams, we won't have to feel how profoundly alone we actually are. The pyramid on his wall seemed to mock him. All those people below, depending on him. He was supposed to be their lightning rod, their vitamin, their everything.

But he was just a man in a dark office during a storm, missing a dog he'd given away three years ago.

He grabbed his coat and headed for the elevator. The corporate pyramid could survive one night without him.

Elena was in the lobby, waiting.

"Cable's out at my place too," she said. "Want to get a drink?"

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open. Marcus smiled, really smiled, for the first time in months. Some pyramids were meant to be climbed from the inside out.